


Among the men and women, the multitude

by Pollys_hymnia



Series: Faint Indirections [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But Not About Each Other, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Memories of Cuiviénen, Spells & Enchantments, Stars, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Characters However Have Regrets, Ulmo's Secret Meddlings, Walks In The Woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 02:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/pseuds/Pollys_hymnia
Summary: Turgon visits Doriath with Finrod and meets Thingol and Melian.  Thingol and Turgon discover that they in fact have quite a lot in common (even before Turgon also becomes an isolationist king & both their only daughters end up marrying men).  Lots of talking and long walks in the woods under the stars with reminiscences of Cuiviénen.  Thingol reveals that over the years he has realized he is no longer certain where Melian's feelings end and his begin.  He does however come to understand his feelings for Turgon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of this idea came from a mixture of two thoughts which I think I only partially remember correctly and only one of which directly relates to the Silmarillion. The first idea is that Ulmo was against bringing the Eldar to Valinor (presumably that the Eldar therefore should have remained as & where they were with their own kind and not with the Ainur). The second being that Anakin consciously or not used the Force to influence Padme into loving him (I have no idea who pointed this out/or invented it but it is interesting). In truth I blame Ulmo for the whole thing. Ulmo just wants Turgon to be happy. Ulmo just wants elves to be happy. Good old Ulmo.

 

> Among the men and women, the multitude,
> 
> I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
> 
> Acknowledging none else—not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am;
> 
> Some are baffled—But that one is not—that one knows me.
> 
> Ah, lover and perfect equal!
> 
> I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections;
> 
> And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.
> 
> \- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Finrod had invited him to come though he had no clear idea why, nor did Turgon have any clear idea why he had accepted.  There was something, perhaps, from the fragment of a dream that called them both to the thousand caves of Menegroth. 

The journey felt longer than it was, winding a confusing labyrinth through the Girdle of Melian.  Even with their sure footed guides, Turgon often felt bewildered and lost in a land of heavy shadow.  His senses were dulled as though he wandered half-awake even if he was in no way tired.  “You get used to it,” Finrod had said.  He didn’t.

The feeling lessened as they entered the heart of the kingdom and were brought before the King and the Queen.  Turgon was aware that Finrod was greeting them both with courteous words in Sindarin. He glanced side long at Finrod as he spoke and admired the ease with which the still unfamiliar words came perfectly formed from his mouth.  Finrod was always perfect.

“Turgon,” Thingol began and Turgon instantly turned his attention back to the king, “We welcome you here at the behest of your cousin, we have heard from afar somewhat of your reputation for wisdom.” Thingol tilted his head to the side somewhat curiously and looked Turgon over, “However I had not heard how well you recall the comeliness of Finwë, though you are of course taller.”

Melian, hitherto quiet and still, shifted in her chair slightly and spoke, “Fair guests, we would be honored if you would dine with us this evening and sit beside us as we feast in your honor.” She turned and directed her gaze to Finrod, “Perhaps you would also grace us with a song?  Daeron has missed your accompaniment.”

Finrod bowed, “We would be honored, and though I could not hope to match the skill of Daeron, I will happily sing for you if that is your wish.”

 

The vast hall was hung with a multitude of silver lamps.  They were suspended high up in the air, no doubt anchored to the vault of ceiling, but its height could not be easily guessed.  The space was wide, open, and somewhat empty despite the crowd filling it.  During the course of the evening, Turgon had found himself shuffled off near an alcove, sipping his wine and calmly watching Finrod float from conversation to conversation.  Somewhere halfway through the evening he became aware that he was being watched.  He looked off to the left and was at once surprised—and not as surprised as he should been—to see that it was Thingol who was watching him.  Upon noticing his gaze returned, the king nodded to him and began to walk in his direction.  Turgon took a deeper sip of his wine.

Thingol gracefully half-leaned himself against the pillar Turgon was hovering near and inclined his head toward him, “I had hoped you would have enjoyed yourself tonight but you seem quite… pensive?  Or perhaps weary? I do hope you are not over-extending yourself on our behalf, I would not be thought an ungracious host.”

“No, no,” Turgon waved his hand dismissively, “I am well. Perhaps a little weary, but more so in mind than body,” he smiled lopsidedly, “I am sorry if I seem an ungracious guest in my own turn, this is not exactly my usual… arena, my fair cousin Finrod seems much more at home. But of course, he has kin here and I am but a stranger, I beg your forgiveness.”

Thingol nodded solemnly, “The weariness of mind is understandable given this is your first journey… within the Girdle of Melian, you do grow accustomed to it over time.”

“Yes, Finrod said as much, yet I have not yet grown accustomed to it.  I will give it more time as you say.”

Thingol took a sip of wine, “You are not alone, for some of… keener intellect and awareness it may take longer,” he paused thoughtfully, “perhaps years.  I do hope this will not cast a shadow over your visit.  I was hoping I might speak to you a little of Finwë, and how he fairs… or faired, rather.  Finrod speaks but little of him, I fear the grief is still too near or else there is some other great matter of which he is unable or unwilling to speak of.  I have often thought that doom follows the return of your kindred.  And yet tonight I wish only for news of my friend, however sorrowful the outcome.”

Turgon shifted uncomfortable and leaned against an opposing pillar, pausing to consider his words carefully.

“Nay,” Thingol continued before Turgon could begin, “I do not wish to interrogate you, though wisdom perhaps would urge me to in the consideration of greater matters.  Tonight let us only speak of smaller ones.  Less urgent to the fate of Arda, perhaps, but dearer to the heart.  I would learn of you as well, son of Fingolfin.”

Turgon exhaled the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and nodded in agreement, “Yes, speaking of small matters tonight would please me though the matter of my grandfather grieves me as well.  I suppose I can at least discourse on happier times.  He mentioned you not infrequently, and I know the value he placed on your friendship.  Grandfather longed for news of you though there we had little to none.  I think he would have been pleased to know you were safe and happy here in Doriath, with your wife and daughter.”

Thingol laughed low and the sound somewhat grated on Turgon’s ears, “Pleased?  Happy?  Yes perhaps.”  He turned his keen grey eyes to Turgon’s own and searched them, “And was he happy?”

Turgon’s brow furrowed, “I had never thought him to be unhappy though… of course the matter of the death of his first wife grieved him deeply.  Still he found much joy in life, in his family, and in Indis.”

Thingol nodded, “Yes, yes, that is well.  We had faced much loss, turmoil, and uncertainty together.  I had not thought grief would follow him into the blessed realm but it comforts me to know that he too was comforted.  Would that he were here, I would like to speak with him again.”  Thingol’s gaze and moved through Turgon, past him, remembering other days in the deeps of time when the world was new.  He turned again toward Turgon, returning also to the present moment, “I do wish also to learn of you yourself as I said…” he paused, “Finrod is my kin but he does not so much bear the likeness of Finwë as you do, are there others of his descendants as such?”

“Others bear somewhat and bore his likeness, more and less than myself… Fëanor, and Fingolfin my sire were akin in appearance though not in mind or heart.  My brother Fingon somewhat recalls Finwë as well though where I am taller in stature he is shorter,” Turgon laughed slightly, “Much to his eternal consternation.  Still I had hoped rather I was more akin to my grandfather in thought than in form.”

Thingol smiled, “Truly hearing you speak I think it is so, though from what I remember he was perhaps somewhat more impulsive and would have swallowed up at least a keg of our wine by now.  You, however, are much more sober, figuratively and literally.”

“I have been known on occasion to drink my fair share, forgive me for not taking full advantage of your hospitality.”

“And so courteous, I fear Finwë was rarely so to his close friends, being too familiar he deemed for formality.”

“And are we friends then?” Turgon asked genuinely.

“I had hoped we would be.”

They both drank together in silent thought for a while as the music shifted from one tune to another.  Turgon became aware that now Finrod sang and harped. 

“Your cousin is very talented,” Thingol remarked.

“Yes, he is, though he is not the most talented of our family.”

“No, I have heard as much … though of those matters I do not wish to speak.”  He frowned, “I am sorry, I did say I meant only to speak of smaller matters, and I thus I intend to.”

Turgon shrugged, “I have no wish to debate the nets of fate today, for now they can wait.”

They listened together again, in silence and applauded when Finrod had finished his song.  He had begun with a joyous tune, one well known in the blessed realm.  Somewhere in the middle of the song a heavy undercurrent began to intertwine itself with the melody and by the end the song was so interwoven between the joyful and the sorrowful strains that Turgon could not say which was the greater.  And yet it moved him deeply and he sighed, then caught himself in a shiver as he remembered sharply the bite of the ice.

Thingol’s eyebrows raised and he immediately removed his grey cloak and held it out to Turgon, “Are you cold?” he turned his arms and wrapped the mantle over Turgon’s shoulders, “Perhaps we should move closer to the fire,” he paused for a moment in uncertainty, recalling in his own mind the manner of arrival of Turgon and his kin from the northernmost part of the continent and what hardships they must have faced.

“It was only a passing thought, I am well, you need not trouble yourself,” He made to remove the cloak but Thingol gestured dismissively.

“Keep it please, in truth it befits you more than I, and I would not have a guest so uncomfortable.”

Deeming it would be rude now to refuse, Turgon bowed his head, “I thank you, you are most kind.”

Thingol half smiled, “Kind?  No, not really... not anymore.  Courteous, perhaps.”  He paused thoughtfully, “I would still like to hear more of yourself and the blessed realm, I have missed it.”

Turgon subconsciously drew the cloak around himself.  The weave was fine but thick, the fabric smooth but warm.  All thought of ice left his mind.  He closed his eyes briefly to pull his memories to the fore of this thought and then began first to tell a story of Finrod and himself accompanying the hunt of Oromë.  Neither of them had been quite equal to the task at the time, being youths, and somehow they had both ended up in the midst of a dark, expansive, cold… puddle of mud.  Thingol laughed boisterously.  The evening began to blur again, after that.  Turgon was talkative, when in the mood, and found that night no shortage of words for his eager audience of one.


	2. Chapter 2

The second night of his visit Turgon spent alone.  The third was much the same, though he woke from a troubled dream several times.  He could never remember what the dreams were about by the time he arose.  During the day, he passed the time with Finrod and was introduced to Daeron.  The complex melodies the two made together stirred him.  He began also to learn the runes of Daeron and read a few of such scrolls as were kept in Doriath.  Finrod accused him more than once of being boring, and he was probably right.  Lúthien had spoken a little to him too, and sang.  She was truly lovely, recalling the best parts of both her parents from what Turgon could tell.  He wondered at the subtle power of her voice, the gentle lulling timbre that could at once ease the heart and lull the mind into a torpor. 

On the fourth night he had retired early in an attempt to reclaim some sleep but woke again late into the night from another unremembered dream.  It was well past midnight when he stood and dressed himself, resolving instead to wander a little beneath the stars if he could. 

Turgon nodded silently to the guards as he passed through the great gate of Menegroth and made for the nearest edge of the forest.  The air was cool but not chill, crisp and refreshing and he felt now more awake than he had since he first entered the forest of Neldoreth.  He wandered deeper beneath the trees and paused often to watch the stars slowly swing overhead.  They felt unusually bright and close, as though he could simply reach up and touch them with an outstretched arm, suspended above him from the branching net of deep green leaves.

“I had not thought to find company tonight,” a voice behind Turgon spoke.  He turned and saw Thingol standing a few paces away.  Turgon had not heard him approach, and was startled somewhat when his silent contemplation was broken.

“Nor I, but I will gladly accept it,” Turgon answered, coming back to himself.

Thingol smiled, he was dressed in simple walking clothes, a plain grey cloak covering most of his tall form.  He looked relaxed and totally at home under the forest night.  “I would like that as well,” Thingol gestured broadly around him, “I come up here often at night.  It brings me back to the world as it was many years ago.”

“It is very beautiful.  I came up here because I could not sleep, now I am glad for the trip.”

The king’s brow furrowed, “Are your quarters uncomfortable? You may choose different ones if you wish.”

“No, it is not comfort that troubles me but dreams.  The room I have now is exquisite, and I thank you.”

“Dreams often trouble me as well,” he paused a moment as if he was going to further elaborate but gestured instead behind Turgon, “then let us wander a while together.”

They followed a winding path and Turgon let Thingol lead him.  Thingol was speaking now of the waters of awakening and what life was like in his youth.  Turgon suddenly had a strong yearning both to see Cuiviénen and to have lived in a time when all things, even words and thoughts, were new.  He sighed.

Thingol laughed quietly, “Perhaps I have spoken too long, your pardon.  We should return now before we are both missed.  The eastern sky already grows light, and I have many matters to attend to today.  But I thank you for your companionship.”

“And I thank you, nor could I weary of stories of Cuiviénen.  They have always captured my imagination and stirred in me a deep longing.  I wish I had been there.”

Thingol nodded, “I wish you had been there too.”  He turned and they both started to head back toward the gate.

 

Turgon broke his fast with Finrod in his room.  Turgon remained almost unusually quiet though Finrod had much to say.  “Artanis says Celeborn is an artist, though I’m not sure in what way she means since I don’t believe he sculpts or paints and I have yet to hear him play or sing.  Still, she seems quite taken with him.  I suppose I can see why, he is quite handsome with his long, silver hair.”

Turgon looked up at Finrod for a moment, but Finrod didn’t notice and continued on, “He’s not quite my type though, still I wish her well… I wish them both well if that’s how things are heading.  I was thinking about going for a ride with Daeron later today, would you like to come?  He says he will show me his favorite tree to sit underneath and compose.  I had thought we might make a picnic of it.” He paused waiting for Turgon’s reply, “Turgon? Turukáno? Hello? Are you listening?”

“What? Oh yes, that sounds very nice.”

Finrod arched an eyebrow skeptically, “Does it now?  I doubt you’ve heard a word I’ve said… are you well?  Did you not sleep again last night?”

“I have not slept much since we got here, but I am fine… I was simply thinking.  And I have heard all the words you’ve said… I would be delighted to accompany you and Daeron into the forest.”

“Good, then that’s settled.”

“Mm, yes… I might take a little rest before we leave though.”

Finrod stood up, “Alright, I’ll come by later to collect you and make sure you don’t over sleep.  You needn’t bring anything, I will go gather up some food, wine, flutes, and harps for our expedition.”

Turgon groaned slightly, “You mean to make me play then?  I fear what Daeron should think.”

“Nonsense, you are not perhaps a…um master of the flute, but you can play passably well and I thought we could do some music pieces arranged for a trio.”

“Ah, and that’s why you invited me isn’t it?  What if you had needed a quartet!”

“Maybe next time.  I had asked Artanis but she’s _busy_ you know.  When she’s not passing time with Celeborn, she’s following the queen around and all but begging to learn from her.  Terrifying thought really, Artanis weaving spells with her voice.  I’m glad we’re not living together anymore.” Finrod opened the door, “I’ll see you in 3 hours! That should be quite enough for your beauty sleep.”

Turgon shook his head and sank down onto the bed next to the window.  He leaned back and stretched, the bed was almost long enough for him but not quite.  Still he was used to his feet dangling over the edge of most every bed he slept on that wasn’t his.  He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Turgon had allowed himself to be goaded into playing the flute in accompaniment to Finrod and Daeron’s harping and singing.  He had fumbled only once but didn’t think he had impressed either of them with his skill.  It wasn’t exactly his thing anyway, he much preferred different modes of creation.  Architecture in particular was his favorite.  He had found a scroll with plans and a map of Menegroth on it and spent hours poring over it.  For whatever else unsettled him about being in Doriath, he had to admit that it was breathtakingly well-designed.  He rather wished there was more of the structure above ground though, and perhaps more mountains nearby.  Perhaps mountains all around.

He heard a knock at the door of the library, “Another place I had not expected to find you, still I am pleased to see you again,” Thingol spoke from underneath the particularly pointed archway at the entrance to the room.

Turgon gestured, “I was just doing some reading and I found this.  Your kingdom is remarkably well designed and well built.”

“Thank you, it serves us well.”

“I had noticed though that there are not quite a thousand caves or rooms, closer I think to 800.”

Thingol laughed, “You counted?  I don’t think even I know them all.  But there are more that have been added since the drafting of this plan… Whether or not there are truly a thousand yet I could not say.”

“Is there a newer plan?”

“Yes I think so,” Thingol walked over to a shelf with scrolls piled high on it and began to rummage through them.  He pulled out one wide scroll and set it on the table in front of Turgon, “this one I think.”  He crossed to the other side of the room as Turgon began to examine it and selected another scroll for himself, “I hate to cut our conversation short but I had come here to seek this trade agreement with the naugrim of Belegost.  Perhaps I will see you later tonight?”

Turgon looked up from the scroll, “Oh, yes, I hope so.”

“Good, I had thought I would take another walk and you are welcome to join me.”

“I think I will take you up on that.”

Thingol nodded to him, “Farewell for now then,” and he left Turgon alone again with his scrolls.

 

Turgon had not bothered attempting to sleep that night, instead he passed again through the great gate and silently nodded to the guards.  It was a few hours after sunset but not nearly so late as it had been last night.  Still he made for the same clearing, as near he could guess, where he had met Thingol last night.  He was not there.  Turgon told himself he was being foolish as his stomach dropped in disappointment.  They had not set a time after all and perhaps Thingol was busy.  He was a king, and kings Turgon knew were always busy.  Better busy than idle though he thought to himself, and began to try his skill at climbing a tall beech tree nearby. 

Several hours passed and Turgon began to give up hope, feeling altogether lonely, an emotion that was usually quite foreign to him.  When he managed to find time to himself he rather reveled in it, and this was infrequent given his extensive and industrious family.  He swung his long legs down from the branch of the beech tree he still occupied and began to sing a song Indis used to sing to him when he was small.  It was a song about Varda and her labors in making the stars. 

Not more than a few lines into the song, Thingol walked into the clearing and stopped at the foot of the tree, looking up at Turgon and listening.  He placed his hand on the trunk of the tree and considered it momentarily before nimbly making his way up to Turgon’s perch.  It took him less than half the time it had taken Turgon.  Maybe less than a quarter. Turgon pushed the thought aside and continued to sing.  Once Thingol had successfully settled himself on the branch next to Turgon he joined him in song.  He sang somewhat slowly at first but the words came back to him and his clear voice paired well with Turgon’s deep tones.

“I have not heard that song in a long time,” Thingol remarked when they had finished. 

“My grandmother used to sing it to me… the stars seem so bright, so near here that it came to mind.”

“As though you could reach out and touch one?” Thingol raised his hand skyward, finger extended upward, “but they are farther than they look.”  He dropped his hand back down.  “Many things are.”

“The world is vast, more so than I had ever thought when I was young,” Turgon agreed.

“I have wandered far and still there are many places I have never traveled to,” he leaned conspiratorially closer to Turgon, “and would that I could, I love my home and would not leave it but I often feel the twisting curl of restlessness deep within.  I suppose it never wholly goes away.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You make me feel young again, it has been long since I spoke of such ideas though I have often thought of them.  Despite the best laid plans, things never work out the way you imagine them.”

“That is very true, though for better or worse in the end, who can say?” Turgon leaned his head back against the bole of the tree and looked up again.

“Who can.”

They sat in silent contemplation again for a few moments.  It was a comfortable silence and neither felt the need to fumble for words to fill the void.

“I have at times been accused of saying much and meaning little, it is refreshing instead to be able to say little but mean much,” Thingol smiled quizzically, “And how long are you planning to stay again?  I hope you would consider remaining a little longer.”

“We had thought a few months though neither Finrod nor I have set a firm date of departure. I don’t see why we might not remain a while longer.  We will need to leave before the winter though.”

“Yes, of course.”

There was another extended silence. 

“Turgon, your … wife, I am very sorry she was lost.  You should not be thus alone.”

Turgon nodded in silent acknowledgement of his grief, usually quiescent but always close to his heart. 

“This is a lovely tree, but would you walk with me again?” Thingol asked.

“Of course.”

Thingol slid quickly down the tree with an easy grace and landed quite unrumpled at the base of the trunk.  Turgon made his descent less quickly and less gracefully.  His tunic snagged on a stray twig and he almost lost his balance.  He caught himself but by the time he was all the way down he looked a bit amess.  Thingol plucked a leaf out of his hair and smiled but made no disparaging remark as Turgon had half expected.  “Come,” he said simply and began to head deeper into the forest.  Turgon followed.

 

They walked a long time, speaking intermittently of different forests and trees and the manner and idiosyncrasies of their growth.  “I have heard there are some who build their dwellings high in the branches of the tallest trees, I do not think I could live that way,” Turgon was saying.

“Nor I,” Thingol agreed, “Much too… exposed. I much prefer a hidden, solid place of strength.”

“Yes, as do I.”

They spoke a little of their daughters as they walked, of what they were like as children and now that they were fully grown.  “I should have asked Idril to come, she would like Lúthien I think.”

“Perhaps next time.”

“Yes.”

They came to a halt finally at the edge of a clear pool fed by a small waterfall pouring through the cleft of a jagged mound of granite that shot up from the forest floor and tumbled over itself in a spread of boulders trailing down the adjacent hillside.

“They say Oromë passed this way on his many rides before ever elf awoke under the stars,” Thingol sat down on a boulder at the edge of the pool.  If it had been shaped subtly by the hand of a craftsmen into the shape of a bench or fell that way naturally Turgon could not say.  He sat down on it beside Thingol and Thingol continued speaking, “It always reminds me of a place I used to go in Nan Elmoth.”

“Where you met your wife.”

“Hm, yes… and that was long ago.” Thingol looked down to his feet, “She was beautiful then, as beautiful as the Valar, and nearly as strong. She could crush you with a word if she wanted to, or entangle you and deceive yourself from yourself until you no longer knew who you were.” He looked up, “she provides us all a great protection. For that I am grateful.”

“You speak not of love,” Turgon observed before he thought better of it.

“No, I do not.”  He paused long and his next words came as though with a struggle, “Sometimes I wonder, where her feelings end and mine begin.  I am not sure.  I am not sure now nor was I then… Long we stood alone together and I do not remember that time save that I dreamed as one lost from himself.  And when I awoke we were bound together forever.” Thingol rested his head in his hands, “forgive me, I should not burden you with such thoughts.”

Turgon wondered what more lay beneath his words and he was troubled, “Do you mean to say that she used her… enchantment on you?”

Thingol sat up and smiled ironically, “Most assuredly, one does not normally spend a hundred years in a forest without moving.  But what more her enchantment did I could not, would not say.”

Turgon frowned.  Thingol waved his hand in gesture of dismissal, “Do not misunderstand me, I do not blame her for anything.  Her heart is pure but her will I think is stronger than she knows where others are concerned.  But that is,” he gestured around them, “much to our benefit here.  And she gave me a daughter whom I love dearly.” He laughed suddenly, “You must think me quite bitter, I do not mean to be.  Forgive me.  I have not spoken of these things before to anyone, for all those who dwell here are her subjects too and must be true to her.” He paused again, “I have not spoken of these things before and I do not yet clearly know my own mind, but what difference would it make anyway.  This is how things have turned out, and our way of life here is… good.”

Turgon cocked his head, “But what do you desire?”

“Do I desire other than that which I have?” Thingol mused, “I would see Valinor again, and Cuiviénen.  I would walk free under the fearless night and sing in peace.  Or perhaps I would sail the sea and follow after the horns of Ulmo forever.”

“That too would be my desire, I have often heard their echoing in my dreams.  I have dwelt for a while now beside the sea but the West is lost to me while our foe lives.”

“Many things are lost to us all, but new things may yet be found and made…” he faced Turgon, “our friendship for one, I am glad to have found.”

“Often the friend unlooked for proves the most worthy, so I find it with you.  I was not sure why Finrod asked me here or why I came but I am glad I did.”

Thingol smiled and looked back to the surface of the pond, but he found its waters were not half so blue as Turgon’s eyes.  He was troubled once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Turgon slept more soundly that night after he returned from his walk.  When he awoke however, he still suffered the same unshakable heaviness of mind that he had since entering Doriath.  Still, it was a little lighter and he was somewhat refreshed. 

Later that day, a note came for Turgon from one of Thingol’s servants.  Turgon accepted it politely and sat down to read it.  It was written in elegant, flowing runes.  Less angular and squared than the way Daeron formed them, though also less symmetrical.  Turgon liked them better nevertheless.  The note was from Thingol, it was short but disappointing:

 

> _My dear friend,_
> 
> _I had looked forward to walking with you again tonight but I’m afraid I have some business to attend to with the Queen.  I will however try to make time to go up to the forest tomorrow night.  I hope you will join me then._
> 
> _Elu_

Turgon felt unusually light as he read over the letters again and the simple but rather intimate salutation of Elu.  He was disappointed he would not see the king tonight, but told himself he was being foolish again and anyway one night alone was no matter. He read the letter again.

Finrod had knocked lightly and opened the door a crack when no one had answered.  He approached Turgon who had still taken no notice. Finrod, of course noticed the letter and snatched it from him, “What’s this? Have you an admirer here in fair Doriath? You were certainly _lost_ in this letter.”  Turgon scrambled to grab it back from Finrod, but Finrod had already read it, “‘Elu’” he quirked a smile at Turgon, “I had no idea Turgon, he doesn’t seem like your type at all.” He held the letter far out of Turgon’s reach.

Turgon rolled his eyes, “What would you know of my ‘type’ and that’s not how it is anyway.”

“Is that so ‘my dearest friend,’” Finrod laughed.

“Will you stop?”

“You deny it, it must be true!”

Turgon finally succeeded in retaking the letter, “You’re being ridiculous and you know it,” he said sourly.

Finrod’s eyebrows raised, “Wait a minute,” he studied his friend closely, “Oh, no but this isn’t a joke is it, hmm, well one strange turn deserves another.  I had no idea my pressing need for Daeron to make love to me would result indirectly in a strange affair between a prince of the Noldor and the king of Doriath.”

“I—” Turgon stopped short, “What? Daeron?”

Finrod grinned, “Yes, Daeron.”

“And he… and you,” he gestured somewhat crudely, “really Finrod?  Well I suppose I’m not surprised. Oh or has that not, er, happened yet?”

“Hm no, it’s happened thoroughly,” Finrod grinned, “But wait we were speaking of you and _Elu_.”

“It really isn’t like that, he’s a friend.”

Finrod thought back, “Wait a minute, wasn’t there that Teler in Alqualondë you used to follow after?  OH by Eru he _is_ your type.  Or one of them.”

“I DO NOT HAVE A TYPE!”

“I don’t know, a moonlit walk in the forest seems awfully romantic.  And why not?  Well he is married so I guess that’s why not, I’m sorry cousin.”

Turgon rolled his eyes again and was half surprised they didn’t roll right out of their sockets, “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Finrod allowed, “But I will be asking you how your tryst with him tomorrow goes.”

Turgon scowled.  Finrod laughed delightedly.

“If this ends up in a song I WILL kill you.”

 

Turgon had pondered Finrod’s teasing words heavily over the next day.  Finrod had not so much as mentioned it again, but Turgon knew by the smirks and amused looks he kept directing toward Turgon that he was still thinking about it.  But it wasn’t like that. Or was it?  He thought back to his first day in Menegroth when Thingol had greeted him and commented on his looks.  Turgon’s stomach twisted slightly and he felt light headed again.  But even if the king did think of him that way, Turgon didn’t.  Or did he.  Thingol’s long stream of silver hair flashed before his eyes and Turgon found himself wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through it, how soft it was, it looked like silk made from starlight. Elwë was a fitting name for him.  He was practically made of stars.  Turgon shook his head, no he didn’t feel that way about Thingol.  Elu.  Elwë. Maybe he was simply lonely. Still they had a lot in common.

 

Turgon joined Finrod that afternoon at a feast on a broad, green lawn some way north from the gate.  Turgon had not gone that way before.  There was a long wooden table piled high with food and drink.  Daeron was playing the harp and elves and elf-maidens were dancing merrily on the grass under the clear sky.  Lúthien was with them and most of the eyes in the crowd followed her lithe limbs as she swayed to the tune.  Turgon’s eyes found Thingol.  He sat at a table a little further back upon a dais and the queen sat beside him.  Thingol was speaking with Celeborn who sat on his left.  Melian’s eyes met Turgon’s and he felt from outside himself a wave of sadness wash over him.  Turgon took a step back to gather himself and looked away.  Finrod grabbed his arm and he looked truly concerned, “are you alright? Come, let’s sit down.”  He guided him over to another table to the left of Thingol’s. 

Turgon and Finrod seated themselves and a servant brought them both some food and wine.  Turgon promptly drained his cup.  “What was that about?” Finrod asked even though he thought perhaps he could guess.

“I’m not sure,” Turgon said truly.

“No, but maybe you will be tonight.”

Turgon didn’t answer but directed his attention to the dancers.

Meanwhile, Thingol had joined the dancers.  He linked hands with Lúthien and the two danced a lively tune together.  If Turgon had thought Lúthien inherited her artful, liquid grace from her mother he now knew that he was wrong.  That was all Thingol.  Her voice was that of Melian perhaps, but she was truly her father’s daughter.  The two moved alike in perfect sync and Turgon could not take his eyes away from them.  From him.  Thingol’s arms were almost serpentine as they rolled with the flowing notes of Daeron’s harp.  They were both captivating.  Perhaps mesmerizing was a better word, Turgon pondered half aware that he was still staring even after the song had ended.  Thingol had returned to his seat after a round of spirited cheering from his subjects.  Thingol smiled modestly and waved to them.  His gaze found Turgon’s and he nodded in recognition and raised his glass a little as he sipped his wine. 

Turgon responded in kind and averted his glance into his cup as he sipped it.  The servant brought another, and later another.  Turgon was distracted from his internal debate by an animated discussion with Finrod regarding Daeron and his merits.  He learned rather more about Daeron than he need to know but enjoyed himself nonetheless and the night passed quickly after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Conclusion in next work, 'I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs'
> 
> Please don't hate me but I thoroughly enjoyed writing this. I also have to name this ship, at this time I'm calling it Tall Ship and Tall Kings (ha ha ha get it?).


End file.
